Dreaming in two worlds (cont.)

-> Continued from part I

America is a dream in a different way. It’s been over 7 years since I moved here. Looking at my life now, I’ve done pretty well for myself. I have a stable job, a solid group of friends, a long term home for the first time in this country. I’m lucky enough to not grapple with visas and have enough financial security to not worry about expenses ahead. I found ways to assimilate and take pride in my resilience, adaptability, and independence. But it feels like I have to hold on for dear life, that I have to fight or else it will all slip away. Time and time again I find myself alone—during summer and winter breaks bed rotting away in between minimum wage jobs, during lockdown distracting myself with video games and substances in my mice infested apartment, during holidays witnessing all my friends go back home. I put on a smile or a game face and brace for whatever it is to come.

Sometimes during my quest for success I lost the capacity to feel from deep within me without performative intent. This might be another story about growing up, about moving, about falling in and out of love, about trying and failing and trying again. But hear me out, this is also a story about how all the rage that’s bottled within me is finding a shape to take form. There is a loss of sincerity and hope, replaced by a memorized narrative, one that I often recount to prove my worth to strangers, but more often myself.